


procession

by oryx



Category: Crows Zero (2007), 信長協奏曲 | Nobunaga Concerto (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people were meant to be conquerors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	procession

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Последовательность](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322940) by [mikkie28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkie28/pseuds/mikkie28)



He despises Oda Nobunaga.  
   
He hates this man, this _fool_ , who has the audacity to stand in front of him and say that he doesn’t remember.  
   
Remembering is all Denjiro can do. The flames and their blood colouring the dirt and the way they’d screamed his name, telling him to run even as they lay there dying. Even if he tried to forget, the pain that courses its way down the length of his arm would remind him again and again. The scars on his skin tell the story just as well as his memories.  
   
“Hey, Saru,” Nobunaga says, with that sickeningly oblivious smile, and Denjiro grits his teeth.  
   
  
   
  
   
He isn’t sure what to think of Takiya Genji.  
   
Third-year transfer students aren’t something you see often around Suzuran, much less with dreams of conquering the place. Takes a certain kind of ballsy, reckless idiocy to be that sure of yourself. As if anyone could do in one year what no one has ever done in three.  
   
But he can’t deny that it’s exciting, having a real threat upon his throne. For some time now he’s been content like this – the mostly-undisputed ruler of Suzuran, the King of the Beasts, whiling away his time with pointless games and meaningless fights. But now there’s this person in front of him with a fire in their eyes, and he can feel it stirring in him, too.  
   
Maybe, Tamao thinks, and tilts his head back to stare up at the sky, watching the grey of his cigarette smoke fading away into blue. Maybe he’ll finally get serious, and aim for the top of this place after all.  
   
  
  
  
   
This man called Oda Nobunaga confuses him.  
   
His strategies make no logical sense. He forgives those that he should punish, believes in those who have lied to him in the past, puts himself in harm’s way for those he met only yesterday. This man’s naïvete will be the death of him, Denjiro thinks. It should have killed him long ago. So why? Why is it that he is still alive?  
   
And above all else is that strange sense of disconnect, as if Denjiro were missing a vital piece of the puzzle. He cannot seem to reconcile the carelessly sentimental man in front of him with the one he has loathed all these years. The one who would participate in the slaughter of innocents. The one who would lead his army into a simple farming village and leave its inhabitants broken and bloody by the roadside.  
   
“I want to create a world without war,” he says, still grinning like a fool, and the words settle like a weight in the back of Denjiro’s mind, like a knife under his skin, because somehow they ring true.  
   
  
   
  
   
He’s defeated by Takiya Genji.  
   
Tamao lies there in the mud, face gone numb from the punches, eyes swelling shut, the sharp, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and can’t remember the last time he felt this way.  
   
Satisfied, that is.  
   
He gets it now – why his first two years at Suzuran felt so hollow and empty. Because he was waiting for this. He didn’t know it, but he was. Waiting for Takiya Genji to come out swinging, to swing back with everything he had and to feel himself break beneath Takiya’s fists all the same.  
   
“It’s the hospital,” someone is saying, holding out a cellphone between bloodied fingers, and Tamao knows the answer long before he hears it.  
   
(Tokio fought alongside him, after all.)  
   
  
   
  
   
There are two Oda Nobunagas.  
   
How this has come to pass he cannot be sure. The resemblance is too perfectly uncanny for one to be a body double, and not a soul in Owari seems to know of the lord having a twin.  
   
But perhaps it does not matter, Denjiro thinks. All that matters is that the man he swore revenge against is in front of him now, unchanged from all those years ago, still willing to sacrifice those he deems lesser for the sake of his great and mighty cause. It was so easy to make him show his true nature – just a hint, the slightest push, and that cold, calculating callousness quickly reared its ugly head. He was eager. Denjiro is certain of it. _Eager_ to display his power, and to watch those people die.  
   
(The other, the Nobunaga who often laughs and praises him with such fondness, has done nothing to warrant his retribution, and Denjiro wonders why it is he feels so relieved.)  
   
  
   
  
   
He doesn’t know how to deal with Takiya Genji.  
   
Tamao knows he can be reckless, but he has nothing on Takiya, who runs headfirst into every situation without giving it so much as a thought. He goes on rampages whenever his mood turns foul, brings down entire gangs over petty insults, and now this? Breaking the fucking non-aggression pact?  
   
Tamao wonders, sometimes, why he even bothers with Takiya. (Except he does know. The same reason as Izaki, probably. Because Takiya is brutal and dazzling, more like a storm than a person, so difficult to look away from once you’ve caught a glimpse of his true self, his true strength.)  
   
“Did you really think we wouldn’t follow our Captain?” he asks, outside the gates of Housen, where that lone figure in black stands in front of a sea of silver.  
   
There’s no one else in the world he’d go this far for.  
   
  
   
  
   
He waits.  
   
Til the very end he will play this game – the co-conspirator, the dutiful right hand man, the real Nobunaga’s most trusted confidant. He will carry out every order flawlessly. He will lend his shoulder whenever his “lord” falters. He will wait until the moment that Nobunaga looks at him with nothing but boundless faith in his eyes, and then he will tear it all down in an instant.  
   
But perhaps he waits too long.  
   
“Hideyoshi-sama,” the messenger says, and though his breath is coming quick his face is very pale. “Mitsuhide-sama, he… at Honno-ji… O-our lord is…”  
   
_Oh_ , Denjiro thinks, a tight feeling in his throat.  
   
So Nobunaga has finally made his move.  
   
The other Nobunaga was just an imposter. He did not matter. Not to Denjiro, at least. So why, when he closes his eyes, can he see that face, that smile, hear that voice saying “you’re incredible, Saru,” “thank goodness you’re alright,” “you know, I want to make a world where everyone can live happily” –  
   
“Mitsuhide will pay for his crimes,” Denjiro says, a tremble of rage in his voice, hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword.  
   
The old crimes and the new.  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
He thinks his left arm might be broken.  
   
Fuck those Namimori Tech punks. Eighteen against two? Bunch of underhanded cowards, the lot of them. Not like they hadn’t fucked them up in return, but still. With those shitty odds, they were always destined to take a beating. Takiya shifts a bit and Tamao can feel him wince – from the shallow way he’s breathing, Tamao would guess he’s got at least a few cracked ribs. His back, pressed up against Tamao’s, is hot even through the material of his jacket.  
   
“Oi, Serizawa,” Takiya says. His voice is a bit thin. He nudges Tamao with his elbow and reaches back to hand him a cigarette (their last one), and when Tamao takes a drag it’s still warm from Takiya’s lips.  
   
“Hm?”  
   
“You ever get the feeling like… we met each other before? Before Suzuran, I mean.”  
   
Tamao huffs out a quiet laugh. “The fuck does that mean? Like when we were kids or something?”  
   
“Maybe? I dunno. Just… That day, when I met you, it kinda felt like I already knew you.”  
   
Tamao thinks back to lying in the dirt, his ears ringing and his head still aching from the way he’d rammed into that van, looking up at that person with the stupid sorikomi and the quiet intensity in his eyes. An unfamiliar face, and yet. Nostalgic, somehow. A far-off memory that he can’t quite place.  
   
_Hey, Saru._  
   
“You’ve probably just been hit in the head too many times. Dumbass,” Tamao says, and wonders why it is he’s smiling.


End file.
